


Love Roars Louder

by stitchcasual



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M, Mage Hawke (Dragon Age), Suicidal Ideation, a little experimental with the tenses but in a Good way (I hope), angst with some happy bits, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 00:25:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17294156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/pseuds/stitchcasual
Summary: Kirkwall sees a Champion who never quits, never gives up, never backs down, who always gets back up. They see his strength. Or, rather, they just see him. But the true strength behind the Champion of Kirkwall lies elsewhere.





	Love Roars Louder

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Xizor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xizor/gifts).



> Written for xiz0r as part of a follower giveaway on tumblr, inspired and written for her comic ([linked here](https://xiz0r.tumblr.com/post/180606709284/the-real-strength-behind-the-champion-of-kirkwall))
> 
> I absolutely adored writing for this art! Thank you for giving me the opportunity!

Hawke sits on the fourth step of the staircase leading to a foundry in Lowtown. Could be any one of them, they all look the same, and it doesn’t really matter which it is. Not tonight. Bits of his armor click together as he leans first one forearm then the other on his thighs. He closes his eyes.

People pass by the alley entrance and keep going, busy on errands of their own. If he had a mind to, he could stop them, ensure they’re not up to anything that will cause problems for the city before sending them on their way. He doesn’t get up.

He’s seen the condition of the city, closer perhaps than most, from the hidden depravity of Hightown’s elite to the pride Lowtown’s gangs take in their extortion of the desperate and the destitute. To burn it all would be a kindness and a mercy he sometimes doubts they deserve. But so few do.

Bethany had, as Carver had been sure to remind him as they crossed the sea to Kirkwall, as they labored for a year to pay off their passage into the city, as they scraped together every coin they came across to buy into Bartrand’s expedition, as Carver walked out of Gamlen’s house for the last time to join the bloody Templars. He had never disagreed with Carver: Bethany was the best of them.  She deserved the world. It should have been her on that boat, not him.

“Thedas couldn’t handle so many Hawke mages,” he’d joked to Varric once, deep in his cups that first year. “The Amell bloodline is too powerful; my cousin slew the Archdemon, you know.” He leaned in close to Varric, as though confiding a deep secret. “I think the Maker feared for his throne.”

Varric had laughed, as one did at funny jokes, but he’d given Hawke a searching look as he did so. Hawke drowned it in a few more swigs of the Hanged Man’s famed swill.

He wishes he had a reason to be out here tonight, a good excuse to offer anyone who might come across him and ask what the Champion of Kirkwall is doing so far away from his Hightown manor and civilized company. But he has nothing. He hadn’t been able to sleep, that’s all; he’d had no nightmares about Bethany or Leandra, no late night call from Orsino, no urgent missive about a disturbance in the city. He just couldn’t sleep, no matter how long he kept his eyes stubbornly closed. So he’d gone on a walk.

It sounds better in theory than it’s working in practice, as he sits here on the foundry steps, but he can’t rouse himself again now that he’s here. He feels so weary, but it’s more of a mental state than a physical one, perpetual stress exhaustion that translates into anxiety rather than sleep. In other words, utter nugshit. 

He could take himself to the Hanged Man, either Varric or Isabela is usually awake at most hours, and indulge in tempting a hangover and perhaps a game or two of Wicked Grace. It isn’t unusual for him to be seen there, certainly less unusual than in the middle of the foundry district or pacing the streets, staff nearly falling out of listless fingers, as he’d been before. The staff lies on the ground at the bottom of the steps now, too far away to be in easy reach if someone attacks him.

He might welcome it, he thinks, before the rest of his brain can kick in to chide him. No more responsibilities, no more weight dragging him down. No city needing saving, no mages, no Templars. He could see Bethany again. Kirkwall would be fine; they'd barely miss their apostate-turned-Champion, not that they'd wanted him in the first place, just a political figurehead installed by the Knight-Commander in a bid for his support. His friends may be less fine, though Maker knows he'd give them a few years back of their life expectancy if they didn't have to follow his trouble-prone ass anymore.

But Fenris…

From the moment Hawke had met him, Fenris had shown the greatest desire to live that Hawke had ever seen. His humor was dry and dark, reflecting the circumstances that had initially forged him, but he never gave in to it. He learned and relearned so much in those first few years, as persistent and relentless in his pursuit of life as in his tracking of slavers who moved through the area. He’d never cleaned or decorated the manor, true, and that’s all anyone who came to visit him saw. But Hawke caught a glimmer of something else: it didn’t matter the state of the house so long as Fenris's life was his own.

They’d talked long hours about making a life in Kirkwall as they slowly whittled down the supply of wine in the cellar. It was hard for Fenris to imagine a home with the threat of Danarius still following him; Hawke couldn’t conceive of a home without Bethany and then without Carver. And yet they both were in the position of deciding whether or not they’d try it anyway. At first, Hawke thought he might try to forge a home with Fenris, thought Fenris might feel the same. Until that night, so fraught with emotions, when Hawke believed he could chase away Fenris's demons with love, only to have them rip his love from him. It was a foolish hope, naive of him, to think he alone could solve what years already had not.

Still Fenris had stayed in Kirkwall, a maddening, comforting presence, too close yet too far away. He still answered when Hawke had occasion to call, and still ventured forth with their friends to stem the inexorable tide of rottenness that swept through the city. Their efforts felt vain and hopeless, akin to attempting to stick one’s fingers into every little hole in the bottom of a sinking ship whose mast has torn a hole in its side. Too little, never enough, and yet all they could do.

Hawke was ground down, exhausted with the never-ending strife that required his attentions lest it boil over into full-scale conflict, and at every turn he found Fenris, offering a shoulder to lean on, a hand to help him stand, a sword in front of him to ease his way. They were nothing more than friends, Hawke would respect Fenris’s wishes on that, and over time Fenris’s presence helped more than it hurt until the ache in his chest had faded to something that matched his memories of Bethany, bittersweet but evoking smiles now instead of tears.

Hawke likes to believe that each of his friends have their own lives, places they go and things they do apart from him that truly define who they are. He knows it’s true for most of them: Isabela has her dreams of captaincy to pursue, Varric his writing. Merrill wouldn’t leave the elves in the alienage for anything, and they’re finally starting to warm up to her, a bit. Aveline has the Guard, Sebastian the Chantry, Anders his clinic and mage underground. 

For years, Hawke hadn’t known if Fenris existed outside of the times he asked him to accompany the group on an excursion. Fenris was always at home, never told Hawke that he had other plans and wasn’t available as Aveline did on occasion. It had seemed to Hawke as though Fenris’s whole purpose was now to follow Hawke and do as he was bidden. Mentioning this to Fenris once had resulted in a sharp correction: Fenris followed Hawke because he wanted to, not for any other reason. And after all, surely their vacation to the Deep Roads had absolved Fenris of any lingering sense of obligation to Hawke for assisting with the hunters, wouldn’t Hawke agree? Hawke did, quite, and it was never brought up again.

Hawke knows now, after nearly a decade spent fighting and bleeding and talking with Fenris, that he does have a life without Hawke. He’s made friends both in and outside of the usual crew and spends time with them separately from Hawke. He has hopes and dreams, now that he feels able to consider such intangible things, and goals for the future. All of this exists outside of Hawke, will exist if Hawke doesn’t, and yet Fenris has also decided that he wants to share all of these things  _ with _ Hawke, that the future holds more for him if they approach it together.

It’s this thought that stirs Hawke, just slightly, to crabwalk down the steps, pick up his staff, and place it on the step behind him after he scoots back up. If the Maker has decided that this is Hawke’s last night on Thedas, nothing he can do will stop that, but he can at least go down fighting. For Fenris.

His fingers linger on the notched and pitted wood of his staff, the scars of countless battles. He’s considered sanding the blemishes out, but he’d not have much of a staff left if he did so. And besides, the scars tell their own stories, ones he’d do well to remember or risk repeating. This dent, so deep it’s nearly a hole straight through, is from an arrow that had been one lucky inch away from striking Hawke’s unarmored forehead. They’d been on the coast a few weeks ago, ambushed by bandits for the third time that day, and Hawke’s reflexes were slowing. He remembers staring at the arrow sticking out of his staff once the danger passed, relief and disappointment a whirling vortex within him, then blinking up to see Fenris. Fenris, frozen mid-step, as he came down from the high ledge the archer had stood on, his eyes fixed on the arrow, anguish in the lines of his face, the wide set of his eyes. Hawke had no chance to say anything before Fenris closed the distance between them and kissed him hard, reassuring himself of Hawke’s continued presence. The storm inside Hawke faded to relief, feeling the emotional bleedover from Fenris through the hands gripped tight on his arms. And then Fenris had pulled the arrow from Hawke’s staff and tucked it away. Hawke doesn’t know whether he still has it or not.

There are more than a few cuts into the staff from enemies who managed to sneak past the blade of Fenris or Aveline, blows he parried before firing a bolt of lightning or stonefist in response to throw them down or back them up. Every time someone got too close to Hawke, past Fenris's guard, his face said his apologies and promises to do better next time. 

The magic scars are Hawke's least favorite. The burns from a fireball that slammed into him before he could shield; the twisting branches from a chain lighting spell that bounced from Fenris to Isabela to him, leaving them all gasping for breath. And then, barely there unless one knows where to look, are the fingernail valleys that Hawke scraped down the staff as he failed to keep from falling to his knees under the weight of staggering smite.

The magic scars are Fenris's least favorite too. Hawke can tell, when the battles are over and he patches them all up with rudimentary healing so they can stumble back to Anders, by how Fenris's face pulls to one side, the way his touches linger overlong when he checks Hawke over himself, trusting his own hands more than magic. The blades and arrows, at least, Fenris can ward against, these are things he can affect. The magic is something else, less tangible, harder to intercept.

But despite Kirkwall's best efforts, Hawke lives still. It's something of an achievement, considering just how many people have tried to kill him since he arrived, but he can't find it in himself to be truly happy about it. Pleased, perhaps, in an abstract, detached sort of way, like it's happening to someone he doesn't know very well; there are many things yet he needs to do. Like leave the city and never return, he thinks, his lips curling up in distaste. He was never one to run from a problem or people who needed him, but Kirkwall is orders of magnitude beyond anything else he's experienced. He'd like to think he can't be faulted for not wanting to keep his affairs entangled with the city's. He'll be blamed for it anyway, in all likelihood; the upside about titling a mage as Champion is that if it all goes wrong, there's an easy excuse for why.

“Mages cannot be trusted,” he mutters, mocking Knight-Commander Meredith, though he feels the sting of those words still. 

“Debatable.”

Hawke jerks his head up, surprised but not alarmed. He leaves the staff where it is behind him: he doesn't need to defend himself against this intruder. His head droops again once he's verified who it is, and he sighs.

“Did Bodahn send you?”

“I was not sent by anyone. I came of my own accord.”

Hawke's not sure if it's better or worse that way and decides he really doesn't care enough to pursue that line of thought. 

“I’m fine, Fenris, really. Just wanted some fresh air.”

“Fresh air,” Fenris repeats. “In the foundry district.”

Hawke can hear the frown in Fenris’s words and grimaces to himself. He really hadn’t imagined he’d come across anyone he might need to explain himself to and finds his excuse lacking now that it comes down to it.

“I couldn’t sleep?” he offers instead, and the silence that follows tells him that Fenris’s frown has deepened, that Fenris is searching for the words to use in this situation. “I’m sorry if I worried you. I probably should head back anyway; Bodahn will wake the Guard if he finds me gone without a note.”

He tries to sound like himself, to smile as he speaks and tilt his head in that carefree manner of  his. It feels hollow, has for months now, but it’s expected of him. It’s what people see when they look at the Champion: someone who laughs in the face of danger, who doesn’t crack under the pressure, who always stands ready to offer a sarcastic remark and a lightning bolt to those who would threaten the stability of the city. The Champion doesn’t falter; he stands strong no matter what. He’s the bulwark behind whom everyone shelters; he cannot break.

He reaches behind him, intending to grab his staff and use it to lever himself to standing, but Fenris’s right hand on his shoulder stops him. He looks up into green eyes narrowed with worry. Fenris smiles at him, just a small thing, but it’s Fenris’s way of giving him permission. Hawke licks his lips and swallows, tries again to gain his feet but his treacherous legs betray him, and instead he stumbles down the steps and falls to his knees in front of Fenris. The hand on his shoulder hasn’t moved, and Hawke can see the red band around Fenris’s wrist.

It had been Hawke’s gesture of affection, the one slow moment between them that night as they moved from entryway to bedroom. “It’s my heart,” he’d said as he tied it around Fenris’s wrist. “It’s yours, has been for ages.” Fenris had stared at his wrist and their joined hands for a long while without saying anything. In the end, he’d lifted their hands to his mouth and kissed Hawke’s fingers before pulling him close to say with his lips what his voice could not. 

Hawke treasured that moment for three years, despite the pain associated with the memory, despite the confusion of seeing that cloth around Fenris’s wrist when he felt it was clear what they had was past. Until the night Fenris found his words, the ones he’d been seeking perhaps for as many years, and Hawke found he still very much wanted a home with Fenris. They’d lain together on Fenris’s bed, Fenris somewhat embarrassed by Hawke’s attentions as he spent nearly an hour stroking his hand through Fenris’s hair and just smiling at him. 

“I love you, Fenris,” Hawke said, as Fenris wormed down into the blankets, preparing to finally get some sleep. Fenris froze, then slowly resumed what he’d been doing, stopping when only his eyes and the top of his head were visible beneath the blankets. He reached out with one hand and grasped one of Hawke’s, holding it tight. He didn’t say anything. Hawke leaned over and kissed Fenris’s forehead before sliding into bed himself, curling his free arm over Fenris’s waist. He was nearly asleep when he felt Fenris’s touch light on his cheek and opened his eyes to see Fenris watching him, those wide green eyes of his alight with surprise and joy.

“I am yours, Hawke,” he whispered, as though it were a secret meant just for him. And it was, in a way; no one else quite understood the depth of affection between them, nor how much those words meant. Hawke himself would learn in the days to come, but at the time, he just smiled wider than he had in years and turned his head to kiss Fenris’s fingers against his face.

Hawke tips forward against Fenris, his forehead resting against the metal breastplate of the armor on his torso. Fenris’s right arm wraps around Hawke’s head, gauntleted fingers careful against his hair, and Hawke exhales, his shoulders slumping even as he fights against the gravity holding his arms down to circle them around Fenris in turn. He’s not sure how he manages it, he feels as though the inside of his body has been turned to sand, but then, Fenris always inspires greater strength than he believes himself capable of.

It is a strength to ask for help, Fenris had told Hawke once. Hawke doesn’t remember when or what they’d been talking about, but he remembers that. Still, he can’t often bring himself to do so. His family had never been the type, and now, with an entire city watching his actions, he can’t accept the perceived weakness that would follow. So Fenris offers, gives him permission to fall apart, with his touches, in his glances, always when they’re alone. Hawke accepts more and more often these days, and more often than he’d ever care to admit to anyone else, but Fenris looks at him the same, holds him the same, smiles with the same soft surprise when he affirms “I am yours.”

If not for Fenris, his constant presence and love, Hawke wouldn’t be able to do any of this. He would have collapsed under the weight long ago without someone else to bolster him, to carry him when he can’t carry himself along with everyone else. “Behind every great mage Champion there is a beautiful elf with boundless patience,” he’d opined fairly recently as he and Fenris enjoyed a bottle of something or other he’d found in the Amell estate cellar. Fenris had laughed quietly and asked where the other elves were so they could form a support group.

Hawke holds on to Fenris, unmoving, until he can match the deep breaths he feels Fenris take through the breastplate under his head. His thoughts clear slowly, swept away from the forefront of his mind back to their corner to lie in wait until next time. He opens his eyes, not even sure when he closed them, and tilts his head to look up at Fenris. Fenris’s smile is soft and encouraging, and he traces one finger gently down the side of Hawke’s face.

“Good morning,” he says, and Hawke blinks a few times, startled to discover that, indeed yes, there is a line of lightening sky on the horizon, pink and rosy orange behind the smoke from the foundries. Fenris helps Hawke to his feet when he nods, steadies him when he sways. Hawke watches the colors eventually fade as the sky brightens further. Activity outside their small cul-de-sac increases, and Hawke knows they won’t be able to stay here much longer. He bends to pick up his staff, leaning on it as much as Fenris now, and inclines his head toward the rest of Lowtown. Fenris steers them toward the estate, chuckling as Hawke begins to wax poetic about what he hopes Bodahn and Orana might make for breakfast when they start mounting the stairs to Hightown, and prays he may be forgiven later for not telling Hawke yet about the letter from Orsino that awaits him on his desk.

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm barely on tumblr anymore these days, but you catch me on twitter [@stitchcasual](https://twitter.com/stitchcasual) yelling about d&d and dragon age usually  
> Xiz0r is there as well [@xizor7](https://twitter.com/Xizor7) so go show her some love too!


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